


A Study in Habitude

by dannyPURO



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras Is Bad At Communicating, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Miscommunication, Smut, Well Meaning but Unhelpful Jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 02:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: Grantaire isn’t… he isn’t sure when he and Enjolras started dating.Or, the five times when Grantaire was totally confused about his relationship with Enjolras and the one time that made things pretty clear, actually.





	A Study in Habitude

Grantaire isn’t… he isn’t sure when he and Enjolras started dating.

Which is weird; he’s not exactly the person to forget about shit, when Enjolras is concerned. And yet he doesn’t know, because against all odds, Enjolras has slowly shifted from a venerated idol to a friend to a _close_ friend to… something more.

It’s those last two categories where that line gets a little blurry. They’ve been hanging out so much lately, and they’ll spend hours together, just doing their own work, and they’ll go out to eat together, and go to get coffee, but still, Grantaire’s been debating the nature of their relationship right up until when Enjolras leans in after one of their coffee outings, goes up on his tiptoes, and presses a kiss, so light, so gentle, so warm against the November chill, to the corner of his lips.

He _kisses_ him.

Grantaire is frozen in place.

Enjolras is just looking up at him, though, nose red from the cold, cheeks red from blushing, smiling nervously. “Was that fine?” he asks, and it’s all Grantaire can do to nod and stare at him blankly.

Of course it was fine. Grantaire has been in love for years. It’s fucking perfect. He nods again, hoping for another explanation, to no avail.

Enjolras just smiles a little brighter, hikes his bag up on his shoulder, and nods right back. “Good.” And then he’s turning and walking away with a little pep in his step and Grantaire still has no god damned idea as to what is going on.

* * *

They’re walking to the metro, after the meeting a week or so later, with Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Joly and Bossuet, but not Feuilly-- he’s picking up another shift at work, and not Marius-- Cosette picked him up so they could get dinner with her father, and not Bahorel-- he lives so close, it’s easier to walk, and not Jehan-- he’s off doing God knows what with Montparnasse. It’s a little chilly, cold enough that Grantaire wishes he’d worn a real jacket, not just a hoodie, but not so cold that he won’t make it back to his apartment. Such is life.

They’re chatting amongst themselves, laughing and bickering laughing, and it’s nice, it’s companionable, and they’re about five minutes from the metro when Enjolras comes up next to him, bumps his shoulder lightly, and slides his hand into Grantaire’s own.

Grantaire opens his mouth to say something, maybe ask what Enjolras is doing, what’s going on, but Enjolras looks up at him with a shy, hopeful smile, squeezes his hand, and Grantaire can’t do anything but squeeze back and walk with him, hand in hand, all the way to the station. And if he doesn’t let go until he has to get off for his stop, that’s his business. And if he blushes the whole time? That’s his business, too.

* * *

Enjolras brings him a cup of coffee at his studio and Grantaire is so grateful he wants to cry. He didn’t pull an all-nighter, not exactly, but he fell asleep on the cot in the corner at 4 and woke up at 8 to keep working on his commision. His head hurts and his body hurts and he’s sure he looks like death warmed over and Enjolras, travel mug in hand, looks like such a vision that Grantaire isn’t sure that he’s not, well, a vision.

Grantaire must have forgotten to lock the door.

“I was on my way to class,” Enjolras explains, looking sheepish. “Jehan told me you slept here last night and I figured you could use some caffeine.”

Grantaire makes grabby hands towards the cup and takes a gulp and pretty much moans. It’s exactly how he likes it, and it’s warm and strong and delicious. And Enjolras brought it to him, without being asked.

When he looks up, Enjolras is flushed. “Good?”

He nods. “So good. You’re a lifesaver, Apollo.”

Enjolras smiles. “Good.” He clears his throat and straightens up. “Well, I should… I have to go to class.”

“Alright.”

“You should get some sleep.” Funny, coming from Enjolras, but he looks so genuine that Grantaire just can’t make a comment towards it.

“I’ll try.”

“Okay.” He smiles again. “Bye, Grantaire,” he says softly, almost a little shyly, and Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with any of this interaction at all.

* * *

They hold a movie night, once a month. It’s nice, and the routine is comforting, and more importantly, it’s mandatory, barring for medical reasons (an exception instated by Joly), and work reasons, if you can’t get out of it (instated by Bahorel, though for the good of Feuilly). Courfeyrac had tried to add a “sex reasons” clause, too, though that had failed to pass. Grantaire hardly minds that it’s mandatory; it’s nice to have an excuse for everyone to get together, with (almost) no politics and bickering involved. It’s relaxing, and a great way to end the week.

That said, he isn’t quite expecting, when he walks into Combeferre’s apartment that month with a six-pack and a bag of chips in hand, for Enjolras to smile at him from the couch and pat the seat that he must have fucking reserved, next to him, and put askew any and all plans Grantaire had of, oh, not having to think and stress about things.

He sits down beside him-- because he’d do anything Enjolras asks, who is he kidding, after he puts the beer in the fridge and tosses the chips in Courfeyrac’s general direction. He keeps a distance, of course, a polite six inches, which is close enough that enough people can fit on the couch, but far enough away that he isn’t pressed up against Enjolras’s side like he sometimes dreams about.

That plan lasts about 15 minutes into the movie.

At which point Enjolras casually scooches a little closer, leans his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, and looks like he might even go for his hand again, like he did that night in the metro, before he hesitates, lets his own hand drop.

Grantaire looks over, then, ever so subtly, because Enjolras is not one to hesitate. Enjolras himself is resolutely not watching Grantaire’s left hand.

Maybe, Grantaire reasons, it might be time for him to make a move. Just once.

He reaches out, slow as anything, because if he startles Enjolras, Enjolras will move away, which is exactly what he doesn’t want to happen. Enjolras’s hands are almost dainty, really, with long fingers and smooth skin and thin wrists, and he knows what they feel like, sure, but it still feels new and nerve-wracking when he brushes his thumb against the side of Enjolras’s palm and gingerly laces their fingers together.

Enjolras jolts.

Shit.

Grantaire shuts his eyes, because he can’t watch Enjolras pull away, and he opens them only after about thirty seconds have passed and Enjolras… hasn’t.

Enjolras is _blushing_ , lit up by the blue light of the television, and he’s smiling hopefully at Grantaire like Grantaire just offered him the cure to cancer or a perfect democracy or something. He opens his mouth to say something, gets some meaningless syllable out, and then shuts it again, having apparently decided against it for once in his life. Instead, he snuggles closer, tracing little absentminded patterns on the back of Grantaire’s hand.

It’s safe to say that Grantaire hasn’t the faintest idea what happens in the remaining hour and forty five minutes of the movie.

* * *

Enjolras calls him a day or so later and asks him if he wants to go out to dinner, there’s this great Korean place Combeferre mentioned, he’d been meaning to try it.

Three months ago, Grantaire would be hopelessly confused as to why Enjolras is asking him, of all people. Now he’s staring at his closet and trying to figure out what the hell he should wear because this is absolutely a date, and he isn’t sure how long they’ve been dating and now he’s nervous and it’s dumb to want to make a good impression, they already know each other, but… still. He doesn’t know what to wear.

He calls Jehan.

Jehan is over in twenty minutes, frappuccino in hand.

Grantaire is flopped on his bed, looking hopelessly at his closet. “I don’t know what to wear to meet Enjolras tonight. All my clothes are wrinkled and covered in paint.”

They make a sympathetic noise and go to the closet, patting Grantaire on the head as they pass. They shuffle the hangers around for a while, and Grantaire closes his eyes until Jehan taps him on the arm.

They’re holding a pair of jorts, Grantaire’s old painting sneakers, and a crop-top they must have brought from home.

Grantaire stares. “No. Jehan, no.”

“It’s artistic! Pleasantly casual!”

“It’s October. I’m calling Cosette.”

Jehan pouts. “I don’t understand why you’re so worried, anyways. Is this some kind of special date? It’s not like you guys haven’t done this before.”

Grantaire calls Cosette.

Cosette, while exceedingly helpful, is just as confused as Jehan. “You know Enjolras will like you no matter what you wear,” she says, patting him on the shin. “He wouldn’t be going out with you if he didn’t like you for you.”

Grantaire just groans. “Please just tell me what to wear.”

“Why don’t you wear that button down Courfeyrac made you buy?” Cosette suggests, and Jehan gets it out of the closet begrudgingly.

“I don’t even have any pants,” Grantaire whines. “This is useless.”

“Do you want to wear my skirt?” Jehan asks. Jehan’s skirt is floor length and covered in rickrack.

“No thank you, Jehan,” Grantaire says.

Cosette stands up, stretches. “You do have pants. Wear those jeans that make your butt look cute.”

Grantaire grumbles something to the likes of “No pants make my butt look cute.” He gets hit in the face by a pair of jeans.

“Thank you, Jehan,” Cosette says.

 

It’s a nice dinner, of course it is, and they talk about Grantaire’s most recent commission and Enjolras’s plans for les Amis, and they only fight a little bit-- and even then it’s good natured, nothing serious, and when it’s over (and Enjolras pays, despite Grantaire’s protests), they walk back to the metro together, hand in hand. It’s really, really nice. They’re at different metro stops, though on the same line, so Enjolras doesn’t walk him home, or anything, but he kisses him when they get to Grantaire’s stop and Grantaire is so dumbstruck that he just barely stumbles off the train before the doors close.

That was definitely a date, he realizes, as he making his way back to his apartment. They are firmly on the romantic side of the line. He is dating Enjolras.

He, Grantaire, is dating Enjolras.

Wow.

If only he could figure out _when_ , exactly, he started dating Enjolras. And why Enjolras is interested in dating him at all, to be honest, and if this is all some big joke or not, and what exactly Enjolras is hoping to get out of this, and…

He flops down on his bed, face smushed against the mattress. Maybe he’ll just not bring it up, see how long he can get this for. Maybe he can just enjoy it while it lasts.

* * *

Enjolras calls him and asks him if he could come over and look over a speech he’s been working on, one night, so he pulls on his jacket and his boots without even thinking it over. He wasn’t really busy, anyways, and he’s got six or so metro tickets left, and it’s _Enjolras,_ so he’s knocking on the door to his apartment within twenty minutes.

Enjolras sits Grantaire down at his kitchen table with the draft and makes him a cup of tea and sits down across from him as he reads and scribbles notes in the margins.

Grantaire works his way through the speech, critiquing point after point, and when he sets his pen down, Enjolras is watching him, impossibly fond, there in his pajama pants and an old t-shirt, his hair up in a little ponytail. Christ, he’s beautiful. “All good, Apollo?” he manages, because his throat feels rather dry, despite the tea. Must have something to do with the intensity of Enjolras’s gaze and how it pairs with the tired little smile on his face.

Enjolras nods, and seems to hesitate for half a second before leaning in, over the little table, and kissing Grantaire on the mouth.

This is different from the last two times, Grantaire realizes; this isn’t some brief goodbye peck. This is Enjolras going all in, even if he is a bit tentative, and it’s so sudden but so wonderful and- and oh, Grantaire hasn’t been kissing back. He’s been sitting there dumbstruck this whole time.

Enjolras pulls back slowly, sits back in his chair, and wipes his hand across his lips. Because his lips are wet and red and perfect and he’d been kissing Grantaire. God. “R?” he tries, and he sounds a little nervous, which is wrong, he shouldn’t be nervous, he’s perfect, he’s wonderful, he’s golden. “I- Should I not have?”

“No!” Grantaire grabs for Enjolras’s hand, tries again. “No, I- that was nice. I wasn’t… I wasn’t expecting it, but I- please do it again. Please kiss me again, Enjolras.”

He really is the most radiant person Grantaire has ever seen, especially when he leans in again, clutching Grantaire’s hand, and reaches out with the other to cup Grantaire’s jaw. “Yeah?”

Grantaire clears his throat. “Please,” he says, again.

Enjolras, in a moment of uncharacteristic mercy, obliges. He kisses Grantaire deep and warm and not fast, exactly, but with a certain type of… of entirety, almost, that makes Grantaire feel like he’s being devoured.

It’s wonderful. Grantaire kisses back, but he’s pretty sure he’s trembling and he knows Enjolras can feel it. He lets himself rest his free hand on Enjolras’s upper arm, though, right near the shoulder, and he feels solid and Grantaire just really, really hopes that all this is actually his. He has to break away.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, and his voice is low and graveled and full of awe and concern. He keeps his hand in Grantaire’s but lets the other fall to the countertop. Grantaire misses the warmth of it.

“Are we together?” He asks, and he feels stupid for asking. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, he should have just shut up and been satisfied with what he had, maybe Enjolras doesn’t want that.

Enjolras frowns. “I thought that was clear,” he says, in that funny little pouty, puzzled tone he slips into when Courf brings up questions of popular culture or sports. In any other situation, it’s charming, really.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, near desperate, because he has to know, now, even if he messes something up. “I don’t- I’ve been trying to figure out what we’re doing, and how long we’ve been doing it, and what you _want_ , but I don’t _know_ , and I- I can’t-” he breaks off. “I need to know, Enj, please.”

Enjolras furrows his brow. “I was under the impression that we’ve been… _together_ , for a good month now. I asked you if you wanted to get coffee. You said yes. I thought you wanted to take it slow, I thought-”

“We get coffee all the time!”

“Because we’ve been dating. Because you-” He sits back in his chair again, and he looks confused, and lost, and really, really disappointed. “Did you- were we not?”

Sometimes, Grantaire is reminded, Enjolras is not particularly adept at actual, off-script social interaction. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, I figured it out eventually, but…”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Well, I- I apologise for any unappreciated behavior. I was clearly under false impression, I should have asked. I am, of course, completely willing to put this behind us and pretend this misunderstanding never happened. I am happy to be your friend, you know, it’s just as fine with me as… any other relationship between us.”

And that was _not_ where Grantaire was going with this, not at all. Not to mention the fact that Enjolras is lying through his teeth and looks as though he’s about to cry, which is unnerving and heartbreaking. “I never said I didn’t want to date you,” Grantaire says, because he figures if there’s a time to lay all his cards on the table, it’s now.

Enjolras is the one to freeze, for a change, and Grantaire cracks a smile. “Do you?” he finally asks.

“You’ve got to be the only one who hasn’t realized that I’m hopelessly in love with you, Apollo.”

“That doesn’t mean- That doesn’t mean that you want to _date me_ , attraction isn’t the same thing as- I- You’re in love with me?” He’s staring, now.

Grantaire nods.

Enjolras near lunges to kiss him over the table, almost upsetting what’s left of Grantaire’s tea in the process.

“Enj, Enj, table,” he says, between kisses, between gasped breaths.

Enjolras just scrambles to grab him by the arm and drag him out of his chair before pressing against his front and smoothing a hand down Grantaire’s chest. “Please come to bed with me,” he says against the skin of Grantaire’s neck. “I want you fuck me, Grantaire.”

Christ, if that’s not a sentence directly out of Grantaire’s wet dreams. “You know, if I were you, I’d say we should talk about this,” he says, instead, because who would he be if he didn’t torment Enjolras just a little bit? “Establish boundaries. Discuss our relationship. Have a meeting. Call our friends.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras groans, tugging at his shirt. “Please.”

All he can do is oblige. He goes in for another kiss, lets himself indulge for a moment, then a few more, then- okay. He pulls away and takes Enjolras’s hand, and, oh, fuck, leads him into his bedroom.

It’s a little messy, really, but not in a bad way. There’s books everywhere and- wow, some of Grantaire’s posters, and that sketch he thought he’d lost, pinned up on the wall by the bed, and that’s all he has time to notice before Enjolras is on the bed and pulling Grantaire down on top of him.

“I love you, Grantaire, please, please kiss me again, please fuck me, I love you, I-”

Grantaire cuts him off with a kiss, but it’s short, since he can’t stop smiling. “Take your shirt off?” he asks, sliding a hand up Enjolras’s ribs. “Let me?”

Enjolras hardly has to nod before he’s pulling the shirt off, tossing it over his shoulder, gazing at that expanse of beautiful, glowing, marble that he’s only caught mouth-watering glimpses of, before. He reaches a hand out to touch, runs it, ever so slowly, across his collarbone, down his pecs, down his side, around to his back. God, he wants him so much he can hardly breathe.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, finally. He tugs at Grantaire’s shirt. “You too?”

He scoffs and pulls away, just slightly. “Oh, come on, Enj. Nobody wants to see that. Let’s just-”

Enjolras shakes his head, draws in a breath. “Please, R, I want it, I want you, I want you so much. I’m so hot for you, you make me crazy, I’ll beg if you want, just let me see.” It’s so different from his usual cool manner that Grantaire is taken aback and is pulling his shirt off himself before he knows what he’s doing.

Enjolras sucks in a breath. “God,” he murmurs. “God, you’re hot.” And then they’re kissing again, desperate and searching, and Enjolras’s hands are roaming all over his body, and if everything that’s happened recently hadn’t been building up to this, Grantaire would say that he’s dreaming.

Enjolras extracts himself from their embrace after a while and stands beside the bed to shuck his pants off with fumbling, beautiful hands. He’s standing there, then, in his underwear, and he turns to Grantaire. “You too, come on, need you to fuck me.”

Who is Grantaire to argue with that? He lets Enjolras unbutton his jeans, lets him pull them off, watches as he pulls a bottle of lube and a condom from the bedside drawer.

God, this is really happening to him, apparently.

And then Enjolras is pulling him close again, pulling him on top of him and where he’s got his legs hiked up, pressing the lube into his hand.

And, well… he’d never refuse this, not in a million years. He fumbles the lube open, spreads it on his fingers, teases at Enjolras’s entrance, but the whole time, he can’t take his eyes off Enjolras’s face. It’s worth it, too, when he slips the first finger in and his face just goes lax. It’s worth it when he groans out “R,” like all that frantic energy from just moments before has been suddenly satisfied.

Grantaire lets Enjolras get used to his finger, lets him sling an arm over his shoulders to kiss him, then adds a second one.

He… squirms, almost, under Grantaire, his face scrunching up and relaxing again, his eyes fluttering open from where they’d shut.

“Too much?” Grantaire asks, ready to withdraw at a moment’s notice, but Enjolras stops him.

He shakes his head, rolling it on the pillow.

Enjolras is going to have sex hair after all this, Grantaire realizes. Because Enjolras is having sex with him. Because he’s going to fuck Enjolras, his Apollo, the man he’s in love with.

Shit.

Enjolras whines, drawing him back to attention.

“Is it-” he starts to ask, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“More.”

“God,” he breathes against that smooth cheek, and he slips a third finger in.

Enjolras fucking _keens_ when Grantaire brushes against his prostate. “R,” he gasps. “Come on, R, I’m ready, you can fuck me, now.”

Who is Grantaire to do anything but oblige?

He slides a condom on, fingers fumbling and shaking, slicks on some lube, and then-

And then-

God, Enjolras is the best thing Grantaire has ever felt. He’s tight as anything and hot and Grantaire wants to stay here forever, he could die here and be satisfied. “Fuck.”

Enjolras reaches for him, desperate, and kisses him. He’s a little off center, and he’s distracted, and he’s murmuring and panting and moaning, and it might just be one of the best kisses of Grantaire’s life.

He wants to give Enjolras time to get used to him, wants to make this so, so good for him, but he can’t- he feels like he’s going to fucking explode, he feels like his heart is going to give out, and his hips jerk.

Enjolras gasps. “More. More of that.”

“I don’t want to-”

He moans helplessly, runs a trembling hand through Grantaire’s hair. “Please.”

Grantaire fucks into him and puts his lips to Enjolras’s temple, breathing hot and heavy. He’s speaking, he notices after a while-- telling Enjolras how splendid he is, nobody could ever compare, he feels so lucky, he can’t believe Enjolras wants him. It’s all nonsense, really, just words. Enjolras seems to like it anyways.

He can’t possibly last. He says so, to Enjolras, and he whines.

“No, just a little longer. A little more. I’m almost- please, keep going, don’t-”

Enjolras comes. His face is gorgeous, a sight to behold, his hair spread around him like a halo, and Grantaire wants to paint him. He fucks him through his orgasm, and then follows with his own moments later.

He collapses atop Enjolras. A second later, he tries to roll off, because he’s not so dainty as Enjolras, he never has been, and he doesn’t want to crush him.

Enjolras stops him with firm arms around his waist. Grantaire settles on pulling out and dropping the condom into the wastebasket by the bed and falling back into Enjolras’s arms.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says. He looks about thirty seconds from falling asleep. “That was nice.”

Grantaire almost laughs. "Yeah, Apollo, it was."

 

**Author's Note:**

> YEET


End file.
